Prayers of Agnes Sparrow

by Joyce Magnin

  The pie, by the way, sat in the church refrigerator for the better part of two weeks until Jack Cooper finally had enough of it. I was on my way home from food shopping when I saw him sitting on the church steps with the pie on his knees.

  “Watcha doing?” I hollered across the street.

  “I just don’t know what to do with it.” He stood up and stretched the pie toward me. “You wanna care for this Jesus pie?”

  “It's not Jesus pie, Jack. It's lemon meringue.”

  “But this sure does look like his face, Griselda. I can’t see tossing it in the trash … and even Pastor said he saw him.”

  Crows chattered and squawked in the trees above the church. “How about if you feed it to the birds.”

  Jack looked up into the branches and then gently sat the pie on the snowy, church lawn.

  “Maybe the birds will fly it back to Jesus,” Jack said.

  Within seconds a flock of crows gathered around the pie like chubby women at a basement bargain bin, each taking a bite and flying toward heaven until all that was left was the silver pie tin glinting in the afternoon sun.

  Agnes wasn’t so impressed about the Jesus pie, although she didn’t entirely dismiss it. I wasn’t even going to tell her but I couldn’t help myself.

  “Some of them folks have quite the imagination,” she said. “Jesus showing up in lemon meringue.”

  “I know, I didn’t really see it myself but just about everyone else did. Got real excited about it, Agnes.”

  “I suspect seeing Jesus in any shape or form could be exciting.” She took a deep breath and reached for a candy bar—a Mounds that Stella Hughes left her earlier that day.

  “You ever see Jesus?” I asked.

  Agnes ripped open the Mounds and took a big bite that she chewed and chewed like she was stalling for time.

  “You saying you did?”

  “Not sure, Griselda. I don’t want to make it sound like I saw him, flesh and blood, walking down the street or knotted up in a tree trunk like some have. More like an experience deep inside. But that was a long time ago.”

  “Like getting saved?”

  Agnes pushed the rest of the chocolate into her mouth. “Different, but yeah, kind of like that.”

  Cora went back to work after Doc insisted she spend three days in the hospital where she said she was poked and prodded with every medical instrument known to the modern world, or worse, she had said, the medieval world. Two internists and a cardiologist who had come from Wilkes-Barre to see if what he heard was true, declared Cora as sound as a bell and released her.

  I caught up with her at the Full Moon the day after Jack fed the Jesus pie to the crows. She stood behind the counter holding a pot of decaf and chatting with a couple of truck drivers.

  “The look on that pointy-headed specialist's face was priceless,” she said. “He couldn’t believe it and told me there must have been something wrong with the first set of tests.”

  One of the truck drivers, a short, stocky man, bit into his baloney sandwich while the other stared at Cora. “Maybe he's right, Cora. Maybe those earlier tests were all hogwash, a medical mix-up. I hear it happens all the time. Hospitals are always removing kidneys by accident, so maybe—”

  “I won’t hear that talk,” Cora said, “It weren’t no mistake. Jesus healed me—healed me and then he showed up at our potluck in one of Zeb's pies just to prove it.”

  With that the first driver choked and the second paid the check, and they left without another word.

  Cora spied me sitting at a booth listening to the whole conversation. She cleaned up the counter and then headed my way. “Can you believe that, Griselda? They practically called me a liar.”

  “Don’t fret about it Cora, they just don’t get it. People get scared at the thought of miracles and images of Jesus showing up in pie when they’re not accustomed to it. You understand.”

  Actually, I was glad the truck drivers didn’t stick around to ask more questions, and worse, ask to see Agnes.

  Cora poured me a cup of regular coffee and dropped several tiny containers of half and half on the table. “You’re right, Griselda, those good old boys don’t know Agnes.”

  Zeb called Cora away before I had a chance to order a grilled cheese.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Griselda, I’ll be right back. Let me go see what he wants.”

  Stu walked in and noticed me right off.

  “Griselda,” he called with a wave. He hung his jacket on the pole at my booth. “I’m glad you’re here. I got great news.”

  I swallowed coffee. “What is it, Stu?”

  He sat across from me and smiled like a dog going for a car ride. “The sign is finished. Just got to be shipped from Scranton and then we can set it up out on the interstate. But first we’re planning an unveiling at the town hall.”

  My heart skipped a beat. “You know how I feel about this, Stu. I wish you’d stop yakking at me about it.”

  “I’m gonna stop by and tell Agnes just as soon as Boris and I wrap up some business.”

  “I have to go back to the library, but—”

  “Don’t matter, Griselda, you don’t need to be there. I just want to tell Agnes … and Hezekiah, I guess, if he's there.”

  “He's supposed to be working in the basement.”

  I don’t think he heard me because his attention was diverted when Boris walked in.

  “Well, you take care, Griselda,” Stu said. “I’ll just go sit with Boris.”

  That was fine with me. Cora brought me a grilled cheese and tomato soup. “Zeb said for you to bring home a pie to Agnes. I already put it in a box up at the cash register.”

  I dipped a corner of my sandwich into my soup and smiled at Boris. Stu pointed me out to him. They were all smiles that day, no doubt discussing the sign and their plans to unveil it to the town.

  Zeb came out from the kitchen and slid into the other seat at my booth. “Hey, Grizzy, what's new?”

  “Not much, Zeb. You know, same old stuff. Except Stu tells me the sign is all finished and—”

  “I know. They’re planning some celebration at the next town meeting.”

  I shook my head and chewed.

  Zeb looked around the diner a few seconds and then looked me in the eyes. “Say, Griselda, I’ve been thinking. The Daisy Daze dance is coming up in June, and I know it's a ways off, but I was wondering if you’d be my date.”

  To say his question came as a surprise would certainly be an understatement. Not that it was the first time Zeb ever asked me out on a date. It had just been so long and I thought he’d lost interest seeing as how all my free time was spent caring for Agnes.

  I wiped my lips with a paper napkin I pulled from the silver table dispenser. “Well, I don’t know, Zeb. I—”

  “I know you have to consider Agnes, but I was thinking maybe with Hezekiah around, he could, you know, babysit. Not all night mind you, but for a little while, and then you and me could check in on her from time to time.”

  The nervousness inside Zeb's belly was obvious. He always rambled and talked fast when the butterflies started fluttering.

  “It might work out—”

  But before I could finish my thought, Zeb jumped up and grabbed my hand. “Thank you, Griselda. I knew you would, and you’ll even have enough time now to choose a pretty dress and all.”

  He caught his faux pas. “Not that you need me telling you that.”

  “It's okay, Zeb.”

  He smiled and his eyes twinkled in the bright diner lights. “I better go flip some baloney.”

  I had trouble getting the rest of my grilled cheese down and pushed the plate away. Cora offered to refill my coffee.

  “Zeb said to tell you that lunch is on him today.” She winked. “And don’t forget Agnes's pie.”

  I took the pie home instead of going to the library. I wanted to tell Agnes about the sign before Studebaker got there.

  Agnes was with Mildred Blessing of all people. As long as she's been i
n town, Mildred had never stopped in for prayer. But I probably should have known there would be a surge in visitations after Cora's healing.

  I stood in the entryway for a minute. I always felt uncomfortable walking in on a prayer session and just as uncomfortable standing around with nothing to do while Agnes prayed. Arthur sauntered near, and I picked him up and held his warm body to my cheek.

  “How long has she been here?” I whispered.

  “Come on in, Griselda,” called Agnes. “Mildred and I are finished.”

  Agnes had managed to move herself to the couch. That was generally a sign she was feeling good, her breathing easier.

  “I’m glad to see you out of bed,” I said.

  “Mildred and I were just chatting about how she came to join the police force—fascinating story.”

  “Oh, you must tell me about it someday.”

  “Not so fascinating,” said Mildred. “It was after my father was killed by a hoodlum on the streets for fifty bucks that I dedicated my life to crime fighting.”

  “Oh, kind of like Batman,” I said.

  Mildred wrinkled her forehead and glared. “I suppose but Batman wasn’t a cop.”

  “No, a crime fighter.” I looked at Agnes and watched her roll her eyes. “He dedicated his life to fighting the bad guys after his mother and father were killed by thugs.”

  “Oh, okay, sure,” said Mildred. “Well, we’ve been bumping gums long enough. I better get back to my patrol. I’ve got to crack down on the folks not obeying the parking laws in this town. It's just a sin the way some people ignore the law. And Eugene called in another complaint about Ivy's dog.”

  I nodded. “You’ll never catch that mutt.”

  Mildred zipped her heavy uniform coat and plopped a furlined hat with earflaps on her head. “Thank you, Agnes, I think I’m feeling better already.”

  “Cramps,” said Agnes after the door slammed shut. “The girl's got some nasty cramps.”

  I took a breath while Agnes popped M&Ms into her mouth. “I’m a mite hungry. Got any of that ziti left?” she asked.

  “Sure, but I need to tell you something first.”

  “Shoot.”

  “I ran into Stu down at the café. The sign is finished and on its way from Scranton.”

  Agnes closed her eyes and sighed. “Oh, dear. Nothing is gonna stop those fools.”

  “I’m afraid not. He's on his way here to tell you.”

  “Think I have time for a sandwich first?”

  “Sandwich. I thought you wanted ziti.”

  “I do.”

  I no sooner had the ziti warming in the oven and a tuna on white bread ready when the doorbell rang. Thinking it was Stu and maybe even Boris, I took my good old time getting to the door, only it wasn’t them. It was Filby Pruett standing there with a 35mm camera slung around his neck. He wore a straw Panama hat, a gray wool overcoat with fur around the collar and sleeves, and a mood ring the size of a quarter. It was cobalt blue.

  “Forgive the intrusion, Miss Sparrow. I know I should have called first, but I wanted to catch Agnes in, well, an unrehearsed pose if you catch my drift.”

  “Mr. Pruett.” I offered my hand. “I don’t think we’ve ever really met.”

  “No, no, I suppose not.”

  Artists. Loners. Antisocial is more like it. He had a weak grip. I hated that.

  “Agnes was just about to eat her lunch—”

  He pulled a fancy pocket watch from his coat pocket. “It's nearly 2:30.”

  “She has two, Mr. Pruett.”

  “Oh, may I come in anyway? It might provide some good shots. I only need a few … really.”

  “Who's that?” called Agnes, “I don’t recognize the voice.”

  “The artist. Filby Pruett.”

  “Oh, dear me, Studebaker said he was gonna be sending him by, and I am not ready.”

  “It's better that way.” Filby, a short man, reached his head around me. “I just need a few candid shots.”

  Then he looked at me. “I won’t be long, Miss Sparrow, just a few. I can’t do the statue without them.”

  “Let him come in,” said Agnes.

  I stood to the side and let Filby pass. “Nice house. Fabulous house.” He had no trouble finding Agnes and like most folks seeing her for the first time, he stood stock-still a few seconds and caught his breath.

  “It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Pruett,” said Agnes. She reached her hand out.

  Filby took it for all of a second and then wiped his palm on his pants. “Call me Filby, and I just need a few shots. Need to determine the best pose.”

  I was standing behind him, and he stepped on my foot when he backed away, no doubt assaulted by the smell. Most folks don’t expect it, but getting close to Agnes was sometimes a challenge.

  “I’ll just go get your lunch,” I said.

  Agnes smiled, and Filby took a shot.

  I headed back to the kitchen to get her baked ziti from the oven. Arthur showed up with a bloody mole in his mouth.

  “Now where did you find that?”

  “The basement,” said Hezekiah. He had just entered the kitchen holding an old book—looked like one of my father's old texts. He placed it on the kitchen table. “I saw that artist fellow walking up the pavement and thought it best to hide out. I don’t cotton to his kind.”

  “Kind?”

  “You know, all artsy fartsy. Girlie.”

  I shook my head. “Oh, I see. Well, you don’t know for sure that he's homosexual. Being an artist doesn’t make it so.”

  “You ever look at him?” Hezekiah laughed and snorted air out his nose. “That silly hat and the way he sashayed all fancy up the walk.”

  Hezekiah put his hand on his hip and wiggled around the room.

  Arthur dropped the mole at my feet. “Thank you. Just what I wanted … another bloody carcass.” Only the mole was still alive. Arthur watched it wiggle and writhe, and then he batted it with a cupped paw across the kitchen. “You don’t have to be that cruel.”

  Hezekiah grabbed the mole from the floor and tossed it and Arthur out the back door. “Murder is in his soul.”

  “He's just following his instincts. I suppose if he came to me when he was still a kitten he’d be a different sort of cat.”

  “Not always. Some cats are just born that way. God's design.”

  Hezekiah touched the heavy, hardback book. “You want I should toss all these books? I don’t know who in their right mind would want to keep them.” He rubbed his nose. “I was flipping through them down there—grizzly stuff. I think if most folks knew what was gonna happen to their bodies after they died they’d never get born in the first place.”

  “Not exactly easy reading.” I opened the cover and saw my father's signature scrawled across the flyleaf. August T. Sparrow. I barely touched the name with my fingertips, but in that tiny trace of time a flood of emotion wriggled through my body like an electric current from a wire and I saw my father standing at the kitchen sink plucking a pheasant.

  I snapped the book closed. “Keep the books.”

  “One more Agnes.” I heard Filby's voice.

  “No, that's enough, Mr. Pruett. How ’bout if I pray for you.” Agnes had enough of camera flashes going off in her face.

  “I better get in there,” I told Hezekiah.

  Hezekiah stood with his back against the sink. “I’ll stay here till he's gone.”

  Fine with me.

  “So, Filby. All finished?” I said.

  “I suppose I got enough to get started. I may need some more. I mean there's just so much of her … to carve.”

  Agnes laughed. “It's all right, Mr. Pruett. I know I’m fat.”

  Filby feigned a smile and took one final snapshot. “I think I might just use the couch too. That might be nice: a statue of Agnes sitting on the couch. What do you think?”

  Agnes sucked in air. “Whatever you like, Mr. Pruett. Now how can I pray?”

  “You can pray that he crawls out of that den
of sin he's been crouching in all these years. A den of sexual sin and immorality.” Hezekiah could no longer contain his true feelings.

  “Well,” said Filby, “if that ain’t the pot calling the kettle black, I don’t know what is. You coming to our town and weaseling your way into the affections of the people. What is on your agenda, Mr. Branch?”

  “At least I’m a man—all man.”

  The argument could have gone on, but Agnes put a quick end to it.

  “Hezekiah, you got no right to judge people. And Mr. Pruett, I think it would be good if you left now.”

  “I was trying to. Good day, ladies.”

  Filby plopped his Panama on his head and left in a huff.

  Hezekiah laughed in a way I had never heard him laugh before. It sent a chill down my back.

  “I finished the south side of the basement,” he said after a moment. “Think I’ll get started in that little room near the furnace. It's black as coal in there, but I saw some boxes and maybe even a raccoon when I shined a light inside.”

  “That room can just stay as is,” said Agnes. “Maybe you could start on the north side.”

  I took a second and tried to remember what was in that little room. All I could see in my in my mind were boxes piled against a wall.

  “Agnes has a good idea, Hezekiah,” I said. “I’d like to get the clothes out of there. Most of them belonged to my parents. The ladies who helped us after they died kept them thinking me and Agnes might use them but …”

  “I understand, Griselda. I’ll start tomorrow. If you wouldn’t mind I’d like to knock off a little early today.”

  “Of course, Hezekiah.” Agnes smiled.

  Hezekiah wasted no more of his or our time and bolted out the front door like he was late for an appointment.

  “Where do you suppose he's going in such a rush?” I asked.

  “Can’t say, but Janeen Sturgis was here earlier, and she said she heard that Olivia Janicki and he have been seen together.”

  I swallowed. “Really, but she's—”

  “I know, I know,” Agnes said. “She's not so … wholesome.”